


And We Will Woo Him

by ClownheadMcFucker



Category: Dune - All Media Types
Genre: Implied/Referenced Past Child Abuse, Mentions of child sexual abuse, Non-Consensual Touching, Thufir has a crisis, this is not a darkfic im just trying to be thorough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:20:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29295789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClownheadMcFucker/pseuds/ClownheadMcFucker
Summary: Thufir had seen good children raised by cruel parents, having served under the Old Duke and watched as Leto grew into a just and kind man. Though he knew that Feyd-Rautha’s sinister excuse for parentage had been far worse, he wondered–with some agony–if perhaps the lad wasn’t too far gone.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	And We Will Woo Him

**Author's Note:**

> It’s very rare that I’m inclined to write anything that isn’t just pwp horny bullshit, so this is pretty special lol.   
> Heed the tags on this, the implications of past csa are somewhat vague and not at all explicitly described, but they are arguably central to this fic so there’s really no way to avoid or skim over them. Feyd also gets handsy for a hot sec cuz he doesn't know any better. Please don’t read if you think that might make you uncomfortable. That all being said,   
> Enjoy~

It was now a month since Thufir had been captured. Properly healed now, properly adjusted to his new surroundings–things which, in and of themselves, felt wrong. He’d been forced to spend considerable time with the grotesque Baron. Time under the watch of various troopers and ill-trained house guardsmen. He had even spent time with the elder nephew, Rabban, a man whose face was constantly alternating between an ape-ish grin or a dog-like snarl–both expressions which bristled with the suggestion of imminent violence. But only within the past week had he been properly introduced to Feyd-Rautha, the na-Baron. Feyd had been present from Thufir’s first day within the Harkonnen keep, but for weeks had been merely a shadow drifting through the backs of rooms. 

The first time that Thufir got a clear glimpse of Feyd, it struck him how young the boy really was. Hardly older than Paul, if even. 

“If you are to be my uncle’s new mentat, and a new mentor to myself, I think it’s only appropriate that we get to know one another better, Hawat. Why not become friends even?” Feyd had said upon their first proper meeting. Voice sweet, words dripping with insincerity. 

He found Feyd easy to converse with. Their conversations casual, comfortable. But he could not fool the of mind a mentat. It was a casualness which was forced. Every aspect of Feyd’s demeanor postured and trained, in attempt to mask a personal agenda. Perhaps, Thufir thought, it was something which they had in common. He too, after all, had been catering his every move to work towards his own agenda–revenge for the fallen Atreides. 

Today, the pair sat in a small sitting room which occupied the same wing as Feyd’s private chambers. A somewhat pleasant room with large windows, a plush divan to one side, and three soft suspensor chairs to the other, a low table between them. Tucked to one corner, a gilded cage holding a single songbird that did not sing. 

Feyd was dressed and groomed to accentuate the more feminine qualities of his appearance, hair long and loose just atop his shoulders, a leotard which tapered severely at the top and bottom to cling to his slender neck and legs like a second skin. Thufir did not know what was popular in young men’s fashion on Geidi Prime–or even on Caladan for that matter– but suspected, from the look of the garments, that the youth had very little say over any aspect of his own wardrobe and styling–a doll to be dressed and posed for the Baron’s pleasure. 

Thufir had only been witness to a few short moments of interaction between Feyd and the Baron, but the difference was remarkable. In contrast to the pallor of deep-seated fear that Feyd had worn in his uncle's presence, his face now was positively vibrant. Yet still, those sullen eyes. Beneath the gloom of Feyd’s eyes though, there was calculation. Something that Thufir did admire. They watched one another with equal closeness. 

Feyd stood from the divan casually, as if restless, slowly crossing the room until he was leaning over the armrest of Thufir’s chair. Their faces level as he spoke in soft tones, watching eyes lidded. He sat beside Thufir. The chair was large enough for two to sit without touching, but Feyd had eased himself in so that no space existed between them. It seemed something of a habit. In the past week, Feyd had drifted physically closer and closer to Thufir in the course of their shallow conversation. 

Leaning in too close, giving little touches to the edges of Thufir’s garments under the guise of gesticulation. Brushing fingers over Thufir’s shoulder, his arm, his chest. 

It had made Thufir uneasy from the start, each time he considered standing and moving away, now more than ever. But sensed reason in Feyd’s persistence, and wanted to see the thread pursued. Allowing a physical familiarity between them to grow would aid him as well, he thought. 

Feyd noticed Thufir’s wariness and pressed himself further with a bit of a laugh. “I thought we’d gotten comfortable with one another? You know you can relax around me, Hawat,” Feyd said, drifting his hand over Thufir’s thigh before sliding it into his lap. 

Thufir immediately pulled Feyd’s hand away by the wrist, standing up and backing away from the chair so quickly it nearly knocked Feyd to the floor. Both of them exchanging bewildered expressions for entirely different reasons. 

_That_ was more familiarity than Thufir was willing to allow. 

Feyd brought himself back to the divan on the other side of the room. The casual pretense–what Thufir had been loath to describe as “flirtation”–that Feyd had previously adopted was dropped entirely. The awkward air that steadily filled the room now was, ironically, much more natural. 

And so it is revealed, Thufir thought, a small portion of the agenda hidden in Feyd’s casualness. An attempt at seduction as a tool to win him over, it had not even occurred to Thufir as a possibility. 

No, he could not kid himself ... with the Baron’s taste in pederasty infamously known, it _had_ occurred to him. But he had deliberately avoided pursuing the thought because it made Feyd a victim, something which conflicted with the image of Feyd that he had built up in his mind. That of an enemy to be squashed along with the uncle and elder brother. 

This seduction–had it been a salacious suggestion from the Baron, or had Feyd thought it up on his own? Regardless, it sickened Thufir to his core. A boy of Paul’s age! Only a boy! Using sex as a tool with such ease, offering himself up. 

Thufir thanked his years of discipline that he was not shaking with anger. 

“What’s the matter with you,” Feyd laughed, “Am I not pretty enough for you?” 

Thufir sensed that Feyd had intended to lighten the mood with that remark, yet the question was concerningly genuine. He didn’t understand the vileness of the action and instead assumed fault lay in himself–in his appearance, his _quality_. 

“No, no,” Thufir said, trying to work around bruising the boy’s ego as he sat back down, “I would have to be blind to think so... but I myself am not pretty. I’m old, ugly. Surely nothing about me can appeal to you?” 

Feyd shrugged “I suppose.” 

He seemed less upset by the rejection than he was confused by it, at a loss for how to proceed in an outcome that was wholly unexpected. Was Thufir really the sole person in this household who had never jumped at the chance to take advantage of him in this way? 

Thufir wanted to consider this only a piece of inconsequential information in his head, but he knew that was not the truth. His perception of Feyd had been altered and it did complicate things. 

Being trained for logic as a mentat did not make him unable to think in emotional terms, emotional problems often had logical angles, but rarely, he thought, did they have logical conclusions. 

Was he letting his vendetta against the Harkonnens blind him in deciding that Feyd was beyond all hope? Was there innocence–goodness–still trapped within him, goodness that Thufir would be slaughtering in his attempt at revenge. Was he damning Feyd solely for his name? Harkonnen–a name which the boy had yet to even officially have claim to. Was he damning him for the result of what he’d been raised to become, no _forced_ to become for survival in this monstrous household? 

An eye for an eye, one youth for another, Feyd for Paul? It was an agonizing dilemma. Thufir was uncertain, it was an answer which warranted more time than he had at the moment. More information than he’d yet absorb from these people. However, Thufir did know that if there was goodness in Feyd still, it could not be brought out while the Baron still lived to warp and manipulate him. 

“Tell me about _Paul_ , were you close to him? Didn’t you ever indulge in the Dukling?” The question was eagerly antagonistic. 

“No.” It was a flat response, not a sliver of Thufir’s hurt or anger showing through. 

Feyd scoffed. “Boring,” he said, and he shook his head lightly as if acknowledging that he had been foolish to expect to get a rise out of Thufir. It did seem a weak blow, to attempt to rile Thufir to get even for his own embarrassment in rejection–childish. 

There was a long moment of silence between them. Feyd turning his attention to a loose thread on a silken throw pillow, pulling at it, he made a small sound of annoyance as it revealed itself to be a part of the seam that kept the pillow together. He abandoned it in a state of partial unravel as he turned back to Thufir. 

“What do you like to do in your free time? Do you play cheops?” The first bit of conversation between them which was laced with neither flirtation nor antagonism. 

“I do, often, and I’m quite good.” 

“As am I! I bet I’m better.” 

“Is that a challenge, lad?” Thufir said, smiling. 

Feyd beamed, “I’ll have my board brought out.” 

_Ah, there it is_ , Thufir thought. There in that smile was the ordinary boy Feyd-Rautha should have been, a boy who was proud of something he was good at, excited at the prospect of a challenge from a new friend. 

The songbird, having just finished preening its feathers, shook and flapped its wings. The motion rocking the hanging cage slightly, metal upon metal making a sound that was almost musical. 

Thufir would need more time, but in this moment he was content with the conclusion that could be drawn: there was nothing he could do now to heal Feyd, but if he could remain his advisor after the lad assumed the Barony, if their goals could overlap enough to succeed in ending the Baron’s life short, if youth and mentat alike could both manage to survive it, then maybe, just maybe...

**Author's Note:**

> During my first draft, I had this fic titled “Songbird That Did Not Sing”, but ended up changing it to what it is now based on that one passage where the Baron is talking to Nefud about how they'll bend Thufir to their side. That passage always stuck in my mind for a couple of reasons, particularly the use of the word “woo”... the uncomfortable suggestiveness of it, the unnecessary repetition of it within that passage … there’s just something so gross about it. But also the line in which the Baron says that “Mentats admire the ability to calculate without emotion.” of course, the Baron would think that’s a fact, but it always struck me as untrue, especially where a mentat like Thufir is concerned. I really don’t think he would consider emotion to be the opposite of logic.   
> I also could not stop thinking about a comment I saw on tumblr describing Feyd and Thufir as “as close to friends as you can be when you’re a deranged abused teenager and a captive 60-year-old man with a vendetta” So anyway, yeah, those were my inspirations for this fic I guess lol. Hope you liked this!


End file.
